Wasted Love
by the.eye.does.not.SEE
Summary: Somehow, the rules always end up sliding with Allie. Tasha Zapata/Allison Knight, rewrite of 1x09.


**Title:** _Wasted Love_ (1/1)

 **Universe:** _Blindspot,_ 1x09

 **Summary** : PG-13

 **Pairing** : Tasha Zapata/Allison Knight

 **Summary** : Somehow the rules always end up sliding with Allie.

 **A/N:** S—You made me do this. _You did this to yourself._

This wasn't originally written for this week's #BShaitusfics prompt (missing scene/alternate ending), but I'm just gonna squeeze it in there, all right? Shh, don't tell anyone.

 **Inspiration:** Ever since someone on tumblr pointed out that Tasha had a book on marriage equality in her room, and therefore might possibly be gay, I've inadvertently been operating under the premise that she is (or perhaps bi; Reade's mentioned she's dated men). I can't shake the idea from my head; it's just how I see her now. In my multiple talks with countryole, we've created a bit of a backstory for her, with Allison (Kurt's amazing ex-girlfriend from episode 9) being Tasha's longtime best friend and former colleague in the NYPD, as well as Tasha's longtime very secret crush (as Tash is still firmly in denial of her sexuality). If you're interested, here's an exploration of that.

 **x x x**

 _Careless love, there's more to say than should be said_

 _Can't get these words straight in my head_

 _You make me feel so powerless_

 _I'm crying out for more, just a little more..._

x x x

The second Tasha Zapata opens the door to her apartment, she knows something's wrong. Something's off. She can sense it like regular people can smell smoke in the air; it's immediate and unsettling. Reflexively, she reaches for her hip—

And then she realizes she doesn't have her gun on her.

 _Goddamn it_ , she thinks, pulling her hand from her waist, now useless. Silently, she does the best with what she has, tucking her keyring into her thumb, and inserting her three keys into the spaces between her first, second, third, and fourth fingers. The points aren't very sharp, but they are jagged. She knows that if she uses enough force, they'll do damage.

Quietly, she takes a single step into her apartment, as if walking into a minefield: careful, measured, pressurized. Her usually-familiar home now has an eerie feel to it, and she finds her eyes darting left and right and forward indiscriminately, looking for a single detail that will tell her who's here, or who's been here, and why. Where.

Her first thought of is Carter.

Has he been tailing her more than usual? Did he see her rip up that bug on the street corner outside Jane's house just an hour ago? Is this his retribution, breaking into her home in order to do God knows what to her?

She wouldn't put it past him to infiltrate her home, to torture her here. He won't kill her, of course—she's still useful—but she knows the CIA has ways to make life worse than death. They don't play by any sort of humanitarian rulebook, not when critical intelligence is hanging in the balance. _Fucking scum._

Keeping him in mind, she moves slowly, cautiously across the floor. She can't see anyone yet, or any traces of anyone, but that doesn't mean he's not hiding here somewhere, biding his time. As she moves past her couch, she grabs a vase that's sitting there, and empties the fake flowers out of it. A hunk of glass isn't much better than a few keys, but it'll do. One good hit to the head, and she might— _might_ —be able to take him down. At the very least, she'll be able to daze him. Then she can go for the gun in her bedroom.

She's nearly to the kitchen when she hears the first sound—a toilet flushing.

She only allows herself a moment of disgust to acknowledge the fact that he is _using her toilet_ before she strengthens her resolve, and quickly moves to the side of the kitchen, so she can peer down the hallway towards her bathroom. There aren't any lights on down there, but she can see a shaft of warm yellow light spreading out from under the bathroom door. She's about to make a run for her room, for the gun, but then she hears the doorknob turn, and she knows it's now or never. She clutches the vase in one hand, pulls her arm back, and tries not to think about the reason behind why her brothers never picked her for their team when they played baseball as kids. Twenty years later, she still has a bad arm for throwing.

 _Don't think about that_.

Then the door opens, a shadow falls over the light, and Tash tenses, pulling back her arm just a bit more—

When the figure steps out into the hall, she releases before even waiting to confirm an identity. The adrenaline rushing through her system is primal, inescapable, and it's telling her this intruder has to be Carter. But at the last second she recognizes the face she's about to shatter, recognizes the shorter, thinner stature—

"Duck!" she cries out, hopefully just in the nick of time, her heart pounding in her chest with a different kind of fear now as she watches the glass sail across the room, powerless to yank it back.

Allison Knight drops to the floor immediately, instinct and training kicking in, just as the vase shatters on the wall behind her, right where her head used to be.

Tasha's breath escapes from her lungs in a grateful sigh, but she hardly has a moment to enjoy the relief, because Allison is already screaming bloody murder, despite having narrowly escaped it.

"What the _fuck,_ Natasha?!" Allison screams from the floor as glass shatters around her, raining down on her head and back. "Are you trying to kill me, you crazy bitch?!"

"Actually, yes!" Tasha screams back, fear morphing into fury in less than a second. "What the fuck are you doing in my house? I thought you were—" She swallows the name, just in time, and luckily Allie's too busy picking glass out of her hair to notice. "I thought you were a burglar," she finishes quickly.

"Well, you can calm down," Allison snaps back, pushing herself to her knees. "I'm not here to steal anything. And it's not like I _broke in_ , anyway—"

"It's exactly like that! This is _my_ home, Allie, and you're here _without my permission!"_

"I still have a key!"

"That's no excuse," Tasha snaps back, but the fire's gone from her words now. She'd forgotten Allie still had a key, from when she used to live a floor below, and Tasha's breath actually catches at the mention. It's probably a good thing she didn't know this earlier—Tasha doesn't want to think about how much sleep she would've lost these past few months if she'd known Allie could've come into her apartment at any time. Judging the number of times she's entertained such fantasies already, and those with Allie already across the country...

"What the hell are you doing here, anyway?" Tasha mutters, reaching down to help Allie to her feet. "I thought you were supposed to be off seducing Weller all night."

Allie doesn't even blink at the bitterness in Tasha's voice, and Tasha silently says a prayer of thanks for the circumstances. No way that tone of resentment would've flown if she hadn't been able to bitch about the break-in first.

Allison shakes her head. A couple of bits of glass fall out, and she shakes a little harder, letting a little pile fall onto the floor. "No dice. Kurt is spending the evening with his lovely bride."

Tasha frowns for a second, wondering what in the world she's talking about, and then remembers. The mission—Weller and Jane pretending to be married to infiltrate that party. "Ah," she nods. "Sorry," she adds, a couple seconds too late. A couple octaves too relieved. _His loss,_ she thinks, trying not to smile.

Allie waves a hand, heading into the kitchen. "Whatever, it's fine." She opens the fridge, peers inside. "Hey, you got any booze in this place?"

"I've got tequila," Tasha answers, her staple. "And…" She thinks for a second. Is there anything else in the house? "Nah, just tequila," she finishes.

Allison smiles ruefully over her shoulder. "Guess we're doing shots, then."

"All right…"

Usually Tasha would protest other people consuming her alcohol, especially not without asking first, but somehow the rules always end up sliding with Allie.

She takes a seat at the counter and watches as Allie on the other side as she retrieves the tequila bottle, and then rummages around in the drawers for a couple of shot glasses. Tasha tries to ignore the happiness that rises in her—Allie still remembers where everything is, despite not having visited for over a year.

"Limes?" Allie asks, pulling a knife and cutting board from the drawer to the right of the sink.

"Fridge," Tasha answers. She watches with quiet contentment as Allie bustles around the kitchen, grabbing the salt shaker, cutting up the lime, setting out the glasses.

Tasha does her best to wait patiently for her shot, and tries not to think about what happened the last time they did this, the summer before last, or the very first time they did this, all those years ago in college. Tries not to think about how soft Allie's lips felt against hers, how good they had tasted, doused in tequila with a bite of lime and salt. Tasha can feel her stomach clench in anticipation already, and she hates herself for it.

 _This is not who you are,_ she reminds herself.

As she does every time.

They knock the first one back easily, and go for a second. Tasha tries and fails not to focus on the way Allie licks the salt off her hand, the way her eyes squeeze shut and her face puckers as she bites into the lime. Tries and fails not to commit the sound of her shocked, grinning gasp to memory.

Tries and fails not to wonder if this is what she might look like, might sound like, in bed.

She should fucking ask Weller.

For once, Tasha thanks God for his obsession with Jane. Without it, Allie likely wouldn't be here with her right now.

Allison leans against the counter, bracing herself on one side as Tasha sits on the other. "So how come you're back so early?" she asks, tipping the last couple of drops from her shot glass into her mouth. "I thought you'd be over there with all the others, celebrating the new apartment."

"Oh, I was there." Tasha does her best to wave off the evening, and forget about the bug she dropped into the sewer. "Headed out early."

Allie catches her eye, a smirk playing on her lips. "Kurt and Jane too much for ya, huh?"

"What? Oh, no. They were pretty… casual when I saw them, actually. I just needed some time alone."

"And then you come home and _I'm_ here."

Tasha cracks a smile, catching Allie's eye. "Well, I don't mind your company so much."

"Right back at'cha, sister." Allie grins, holding up the bottle. "Another?"

"Sure," Tasha replies, without pausing to think. It's hard to say no to that smile. Hard to say no to anything that comes out of that mouth.

They swallow a third, a fourth, chasing each with salt and lime. Tasha can hold her liquor pretty well, but she's starting to feel a bit of it now. And it feels good. She twists in her seat, and presses her palms flat on the countertop as she cracks her neck from side to side. After the hecticness of today, it feels good to relax. Unwind. Let go…

She almost jumps in her seat when she feels Allie take her hands.

"Look at you," she says, lifting her hand to examine the nails, a smile curling up onto her bright cheeks. "You've actually got almost the full set intact here! I don't see a single bruised or bloody nail…" She twists Tasha's hands from side to side, examining them. "That must be a record, Z."

Tasha smiles. If it were anyone else, she'd take her hands back; she'd scowl and say "Screw off." But she likes the way Allie's fingers feel brushing against hers too much to bother protesting.

"Jane's been taking over most of the front-lines stuff," she explains. "Haven't had to throw a punch myself in weeks." She glances at her nails, surprised, too, to see them so unblemished. Usually at least three are torn, another two a little bloody, and at least one sporting black bruises beneath the nail bed, usually from the previous week's fight. "Your nails don't get into too much trouble when you're just pulling triggers from the back-up positions."

Allie snorts, and drops Tasha's hands, her smile gone as quick as the sun can pass behind a cloud. "Jesus, he's booting _all_ of you aside for his girlfriend, huh? What the hell's going on with him?"

Tasha shrugs, partly because she doesn't want to get into it, and partly because, in the face of the question, she realizes she doesn't really know how to explain it, especially to an outsider like Allie. Tasha spends every day with Weller and Jane, and even _she_ feels like she only knows half the story.

"I don't mind it," Tasha answers quietly. She catches Allie's eye. "Look at it this way," she jokes, "I might actually be able to keep my manicure for more than a day the next time we get one."

Allie shakes her head, scowling. "Oh, please, don't give me that crap—since when are you okay with being put on the back burner? For a rookie, no less?"

"He's not being as negligent as you might think," Tasha replies. "And Jane's good at what she does; she's a good fighter and she's useful in the field. She belongs at the front. And they're not so bad," Tasha finds herself adding. She doesn't know why she's defending them. Just because Kurt goes to Jane doesn't mean Allie will come to her for what he isn't giving. There might not be anything here for her. _Or…_

"No, they're cute," Allie agrees quietly, and Tasha notes that she actually sounds genuine. Allison throws a sad smile Tasha's way, and shrugs weakly as she toys with her shot glass on the counter. "Just… inconvenient, if you know what I mean. I'm only here for the one night."

Tasha nods. She is well-versed in the inconvenient.

And she is well-versed in the ways to banish it from the mind. She grabs the tequila bottle and holds it up. "Another shot?"

Allison smiles a little. "Sure."

They throw them back quickly, hardly tasting the alcohol until it burns down their throats, and roils in their stomach. Allison grips the counter and leans back this time after she downs it, wincing. But when Tasha suggests they maybe take a break, Allie shakes her head.

"Nah, nah, nah," Allie waves her away, her words starting to slur together. "Keep 'em coming, boss."

Tasha knows she should stop this. They're getting a little too far gone, a lot too fast, and she should stop before it all gets ruined. She should grab glasses for water, reheat some pasta from the other night… But Allie's waving her forward, calling for another, cheeks red and grinning, those big eyes of hers so bright and amused and excited, and Tasha can't say no. She can't be the reason that Allie's unhappy, even if it's just for a drunken second.

They have another, and maybe another after that, and maybe more or maybe not… Tasha lost count a while ago, and then the count stopped mattering when they both started having to lean onto the counter for support, their heads bent towards one another, barely half a foot apart. Sometimes when Allie laughed about something or other, she pitched forward a little bit, and Tasha got to feel her head bump against hers, forehead to forehead, hair to hair. That usually set Allie off laughing again, and even though she's speeding away from sobriety, too, Tasha's still able to take a step back mentally and appreciate the moment, to lock it away. She's gotten very good at doing that with Allie over the years.

"You're lookin' at me funny," Allie says abruptly, catching Tasha at her own game.

"Sorry," Tasha murmurs, ducking her head and doing her best to clear her face again. When she looks back up, Allie's still staring at her, her head tilted a bit to the side as she thinks. Tasha can see her mind working, can see her trying to sort through the slog of alcohol to reach the conclusion before her. Tasha can't let her get there. And counterintuitive as it is, the first thing Tasha can think of to distract Allie is to kiss her.

Or maybe she's just been thinking about kissing Allie for so long that she can't take the unfulfillment any longer. She's never has been good at denying herself the things that she wants, especially when she knows they aren't good things for her.

Allies starts at first under the pressure of Tasha's lips against hers, and the touch of Tasha's hands on her cheeks, but she doesn't pull back. At least not immediately. And that second of indecision, of shock, is all Tasha needs, to stand up, to stretch herself over the counter, to pull Allie closer, one hand on her cheek, the other gripping the back of her neck… It's all she needs to open the other woman's mouth in hers, to join their lips, teeth, tongues…

"Tash," Allie whispers, sighing, as she angles her face away so their lips part for a second.

Tasha isn't stupid, or oblivious. She can hear what's in that sigh, she can hear the sadness and the regret and the _Please don't do this again_ , but she ignores it. She ignores it all, and takes Allie's lips in her own again, knowing from experience that Allie won't shove her away. She's too kind, always has been.

Tasha knows she only has moments here, with Allie, and she will take as many as she can get. She will stockpile them until next time. She will revel in the feel of Allie's lips against hers, the taste of her tongue, the fresh and clean smell of her hair, and the hopeless hope that this will go on and on and on…

And then she will sink into the loss that follows, the sensory deprivation she always feels when Allie suddenly bucks up and pulls away, yanking them apart. Thinking of that moment to come, Tasha holds onto her lips for as long as she can, trying to make the kiss last, trying to make it lingering, trying, trying, trying—as always—to make these drunken escapades worth it.

When Allie does finally pull fully away, Tasha lets her go, relinquishing control as she closes her eyes. She does not want to see Allie draw away from her, does not want to see the worry invade those beautiful big eyes of hers, does not want to see her smooth forehead crease in pity and confusion…

But then Allie's hand is there, her thumb stroking her cheek, and Tasha can't hide from her. She's never been able to hide from her.

When she opens her eyes, Allie's smiling at her, and her smile is familiar enough that Tasha can ignore the worry in her eyes. If only for a moment.

"Why does this always happen with you, Tashi?"

The question is quiet, non-threatening, but Tasha can't help it—the words start her heart pounding, her adrenaline racing. She knows is irrational—it isn't as if Allie's going to catch her out; she's _already been_ caught—but she can't help it. She can't think. She can't process anything except—

 _Why does this always happen with you? Why?_

 _Why? Why? Why?_

 _What is_ wrong _with you?_

Tasha can feel her chin start to shake, can feel her body start down that path to uncontrollable, and she fights with all her might to keep it in line. To slow herself down. To keep a lid on this stupid fucking shit that always decides to jump out at the wrong moment.

She can still feel Allie's hand against her face, still so warm, and she just wants to bury herself into that touch. She wants to curl up with Allie somewhere in the dark and never come out.

"Tashi?" Allison prompts softly. "What's going on in your head, huh?" Allie's smile widens a little, waiting for Tasha to laugh it off as she always does.

Tasha manages to smile a little. For old times' sake. "Don't know," she whispers. She can feel her throat starting to close up, can feel her eyes starting to prick, and she hates herself for it. She always fucking hates herself. "Just a—a fluke, I guess."

Allie smiles, teasing a little, "What, tequila makes you get into girls?"

 _Just one._

"Just—tired," Tasha whispers. It's not an explanation. It's not an excuse. It's basically a lie.

But Allie lets it slide.

"Okay," she whispers finally, pulling back.

Tasha closes her eyes in thanks, but her gratitude falls short as Allie's hand falls from her cheek. She bites the inside of her lip, hard, so she won't do anything else. Won't say anything else. Won't beg for more.

For a few seconds, Allie just stares at her across the counter, and Tasha can't do anything but stare back. The woman is _beautiful_ , she thinks, meeting Allie's big, hazel eyes, powerless to look away, as usual. Allie's cheeks are red from the alcohol—and, Tasha likes to believe, perhaps the kiss, too—and Tasha feels an insane urge to touch them, hold them, to pull her close again, and forget about everything else. She just wants to be alone with Allie in this aftermath, with no talking, no thinking, no nothing. Just _them,_ together _._

But the longer Allie stares at her in silence, the longer this starts to feel like the precursor to an interrogation instead of a cool-down after a fight, and Tasha starts panicking. With every second, she can feel her heart beating faster in her chest, because what if this is the time they actually have a conversation about it? What if this time Allie actually insists? Is Allie sober enough for that? Drunk enough?

Tasha doesn't know which would be worse, but she _does_ know she can't stomach that conversation, no matter how sober or how drunk she herself happens to be. Just the thought of it is making her want to vomit right now. She can't talk about it, not now, not ever. She'd rather die than talk about what just happened as if it were anything but a silly accident, or a fluke, or—oh, you know, nothing to worry about, just two drunk girls being drunk.

She watches Allie open her mouth to start to speak, and it takes all of Tasha's willpower not to put her hands over her ears, to start singing nonsensical melodies like a child. _La, la, la, I can't he-ar you!_ But the look on Allie's face is tender now, and not so serious, and Tasha finds herself panicking a little less. Allie always has been good at making her feel at home. Usually Tasha loves her for it.

"You're my best friend, Z. You know that?"

"Yeah." Tasha puts up a smile. "Yeah, I know, Allie."

"We've known each other a long time."

Tasha bobs her head in a nod. She wishes she were drunker for this. "We have."

"And you know that… You know that you can tell me anything. Anything in the world."

Tasha swallows, her throat growing tight again. "Sure."

 _Here it comes_ , she thinks. She braces herself to run. To scream. To fight against whatever Allie has to say as if she's fighting for her life—because she _is_.

 _This is not who you are._

But nothing happens after that. Allie just lets her eyes fall, leans her weight against the counter, and they both fall into silence, though neither of them are too grateful for it. It's better than talking, sure, but not by much.

They both drink a little more, though the friendly ritual of synchronized shots is long over. Instead, they pass the bottle back and forth, taking smaller and smaller sips until they eventually stop. Each stays firmly planted on her side of the counter, and Allie doesn't reach for Tasha's hands again and Tasha tries her best not to make eye contact.

She hates this part, in the after. She always wishes Allie would just leave, would storm out, but she never does. Because they're _friends,_ and apparently that means Allie must stay by her side for any heartbreak, no matter if she's the one that caused it.

Tasha looks at her across the counter at Allie and she wonders, not for the first time, if Allie even knows that that's what this is about. They've been friends since college, for years and years now. Tasha used to spend every Thanksgiving and Christmas at Allie's family's house, because her family had been more welcoming and more whole than Tasha's ever had been, or ever could be. For a few years, they even lived in the same building—Allie had lived just downstairs, on the opposite side of the hall—and it had been a mix of heaven and hell so acute that sometimes Tasha wasn't even sure if what she was experiencing was real, or just some big karmic joke: _This is what you get for feeling the way that you do_.

But in all that time, they've never actually discussed it. Tasha wonders if Allie really believes her lies, really sees their short times together here and there as nothing more than flukes. Tasha knows Allie isn't stupid, but…

Does she really not see it for what it really is? Or has she made herself incapable of seeing the truth, acknowledging the truth, as Tasha know she herself has?

If the latter is true, Tasha can't blame her. It isn't like _she's_ owning up to anything, after all. And it isn't like Allie's the one having a perpetual identity crisis. No reason for her to come to terms with anything.

But if it's the former… Well, Tasha supposes, that's a good thing. Maybe she can get a few more slip-ups out of Allie before she starts seeing the truth. Because Allie doesn't feel the same way, Tasha knows that without them even having to discuss it. Every time they do this, she's reminded how little Allie feels the way she does. But Allie being Allie—she's just too kind to hammer the point home. She loves Tasha too much. And Tasha's been taking advantage of that love for much too long. But, like everything else bad in her life, she just hasn't found a way to stop it yet.

They've long since migrated to the couch and are watching old movies on late-night television when Allie's phone rings. She fumbles around for a minute, rooting around her purse, before coming up with the device.

"Ah, knew it…" Allison grins to herself, holding the device up to her eye in order to read the screen. "Honeymoon's over."

Tasha frowns, one eye still on the TV, not following her logic. "Huh?"

Allie shows her the screen. _Kurt Weller,_ the display reads.

"It's almost one AM," Tasha mutters, frowning, her head still not on right. The continuous shrill ringing from Allie's phone is not helping her thought process. Neither are all those shots they took. "What the hell does he want?"

Allie catches her eye as she picks up her phone, and just laughs in response, before answering the call. The second she's out of sight, Tasha shuts her eyes, screwing her face up in fury. _Stupid, stupid, stupid idiot,_ she thinks to herself. _You're such a fucking idiot._ She presses a closed fist against her forehead, listening to Allie's retreating footsteps as she heads to the other side of the apartment for privacy.

But Tash's apartment isn't that big, and Allie has never been good at keeping quiet after she's been drinking. Her words come back to Tasha, as clear as if Allie were standing right next to her, talking in her ear. Whispering things she has dreamed of hearing.

" _Well, what are you doing right now?"_

" _Hm… That sounds awfully lonely, special agent."_

" _Yeah? You need some company?"_

" _No, I'm not doing anything. Yeah, I'll be there soon. Will you survive for ten minutes without me?"_

Tasha makes sure she's upright, and occupied, when Allie comes back over. She pretends to be having a conversation of her own on her phone, tapping away at the screen, but Allie hardly even seems to notice.

"Been waiting for that idiot to call all night," she says, a triumphant smile lighting up her face as she heads towards the kitchen to grab her jacket. Tasha does her best to smile along, to be the good, supportive friend. Oddly, it isn't hard. Allie's happiness is infectious, no matter if it has nothing at all to do with Tasha.

"What happened with Jane?" Tasha hears herself ask, her words coming to her ears a couple seconds too slowly, her voice a little too accusatory. The tequila's really hitting her now, and she's starting to notice that she isn't always thinking before she opens her mouth.

 _Watch yourself now, Tasha._

"No idea," Allie replies, shrugging into her jacket as she grabs a glass and fills it at the sink. "He didn't feel like mentioning it, and I don't feel like twisting the knife right now." She lifts the glass to her lips, and swallows the entire thing in one long gulp, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand after she finishes. "Besides," she adds, setting the glass in the sink, "I've hardly said ten words to the tattooed wonder; I don't know what her head's like. If he needed someone to talk to about her, he'd go find somebody who knows what he's dealing with." She gestures at Tasha. "You know, you or Reade."

Tasha doesn't bother mentioning that Kurt's relationship Jane isn't something that he talks openly about. Or even deigns to acknowledge. "Yeah, maybe," she mutters instead, looking down.

"Ah, come on," Allie calls encouragingly, coming back over to the couch. "Don't get too down in the dumps about it. You know he still relies on you guys. She's just—" Allison shrugs, not knowing what to say "—new," she finishes finally. "Shiny and new. But don't worry. He'll get himself back on track."

"Yeah, you gonna help him with that?"

The words fly out of Tasha's mouth, acidic, before she can even catch Allie's eye. But when she does, Allison hardly blinks. She doesn't even seem to hear the malice in Tasha's voice. Was it even there to begin with? Allison even smiles a little, as she wraps her scarf around her neck.

"Nothing like a walk down old memory lane to help you screw your head on straight, Tash."

 _Don't I know it._

"Thought you were better than a booty-call, Allie."

"Thought you weren't a prude, Natasha." She smiles over her shoulder. "And I'll take what I can get, Tashi! I'm just here for a night, not after any awards. Don't need the lifelong commitment." She sighs a moment, resting her hand on the doorknob as she admits, "One single moment of familiarity _would_ be nice, though."

 _And I'm not familiar enough?_ Tasha has to bite down hard on her tongue so the words won't escape like all the others have tonight.

"I'll see you tomorrow," Allison calls from the doorway. Wrenching it open, she catches Tasha's eye around the wood. "We'll get breakfast, does that work? Before I fly out?"

"Sure," Tasha mutters from the couch. She wants to not look up at Allie, wants to keep her eyes trained on the TV that she isn't even seeing anymore, but her eyes turn, as always, when Allie speaks.

"Drink some water and take some Tylenol before you pass out, okay?"

"Yeah, yeah, Mom." Tasha waves a hand. "I got it."

Allie grins, catching her eye as she blows a kiss from the door. "See you tomorrow, Tash."

As soon as Allie pulls the door shut behind her, Tasha buries her face in her hands, groaning aloud, hoping the thin walls will mask the sound from Allie, but also not caring if they don't. The friendly fake kiss Allie had given her from the door had felt like a slap in the face, even though Tasha knew that Allie hadn't meant it that way at all. A bitter _Fuck you_ still escapes from Tasha's lips anyway, as she leans back against the couch and squeezes her eyes shut, but as she hears herself repeat the words again and again, her voice getting louder and louder as she bangs her head against the semi-soft backing of her couch, she knows Allie isn't the true recipient of them. Neither is Weller or Jane or anyone else. None of them are the problem; _she,_ Tasha, is the problem. And she keeps spitting the words out, letting them echo off the empty walls of her apartment, and the cave of her brain, and the steel trap of her heart. _Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you._ She lets them burrow their way into each place, making their home there around her, inside her, where they belong.

x x x

 **A/N:** Reviews would be _greatly_ appreciated! I know this is probably super out-there for a lot of the _Blindspot_ fandom, but hopefully it fit into the canon somehow. It's a little out there for me, too; I've never written for non-heterosexual characters, or closeted characters, before and I'm more than a bit nervous about how this'll go down for readers…

All that said, I would love to hear your thoughts in a review below! :) Thanks very much for reading!


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